


Leave me be (but don't let me go)

by littleramblings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleramblings/pseuds/littleramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's still innocent, and you want to steal that away; keep it, along with the sadness, so that he isn't so plagued by worries and fears.</p><p>(Later, you realise that you didn't want him to turn out like you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave me be (but don't let me go)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing TW fic and I'm still debating whether I should ever do it again.

The thing about Stiles is that he's a tornado, an uncontrollable charge of energy; ever present, under your skin. (And oh, he's weaselled his way there, hasn't he?) 

 

He's eight when you first see him. Young and innocent and sweet. There's something different about him- that Stilinksi kid. Laura tells you he smells like apples and rainwater, when you ask. You don't tell her that you smell honey, marshmallows on a campfire, and cinnamon. 

 

Everybody is cautious of the Hale kids, whether they want to admit it or not. But weirdly, he's not. He walks right up to you, asks if you need a hug ( _“Because you look really grumpy, Mr. And you shouldn't be grumpy with a face like yours.”)_ and then proceeds to wrap boney arms around your hips, face burried into your stomach, and-

 

It's nice.

 

(Laura suppresses a laugh and leaves you to go in search of bread and milk.)

 

* * *

 

 

The next time you meet, he's thirteen with a new buzzhead haircut and a painfully forced smile on his face. He's sad, and you know why. Hell, everybody in this small town and their cat knows about the Sheriff’s wife by now, and you feel yourself gravitating towards him, the urge to give comfort clawing away inside of you. He's still innocent, and you want to steal that away; keep it, along with the sadness, so that he isn't so plagued by worries and fears.

 

(Later, you realise that you didn't want him to turn out like _you_.)

 

He still smells of Honey, cinnamon, and marshmallows on a campire, but there's something different about it now. It's both stronger and softer, and there's a mix of something _new_ in there that makes you want to roll over and submit to him.

 

You know your wolf submitted a long time ago, and that doesn't unnerve you as much as it should.

 

So you walk away.

 

* * *

 

 

The fire happens six months later. Strange, then, that you should see Stiles standing at the edge of the woods, watching as you and Laura bury _everybody._ You'll miss him, you think, when you and Laura leave. But it's for the best.

 

Stiles Stilinski has no place in your world.

 

* * *

 

 

New York is good, for a while. Laura gets a job in a bakery and you enrol in your first year of college, studying biology. 

 

It's not perfect; you live in a loft with bits of furniture that are for convenience rather than comfort. The sofa's red and the pouffe's lavender and no amount of scatter cushions are going to hide how badly that clashes, but it's home.

 

“It's not your fault, you know.” Laura says one evening, curled up by the arm of the couch with an old book in her lap. Something to do with demons, maybe, but you're not entirely sure. 

 

Flashes of Kate run through your mind. Smiling, flirting, talking. Everything you did, every touch and caress, and everything that was _wrong_. That felt wrong, but so right because how could dating somebody like her be bad? Whispers, secrets, betrayal. _KateKateKate._

 

“I know.” You lie.

 

* * *

 

 

Three years later and you're back; alone. So, so alone with nothing but a car and an empty shell of a house to your name.

 

And then there he is. That pale kid who you swore to forget, standing with his hands stuffed inside a red hoodie (the irony isn't lost on you) and a stranger kneeling at his side, brushing aside leaves and looking for the thing your fingers curl around, solid and strange in your pocket.

 

“This is private property.”


End file.
